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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27619465">afterimage</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tascheter/pseuds/tascheter'>tascheter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Don't copy to another site, Gen, baby bellroc can have a little hair euphoria. as a treat., what if the order used to be human?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 03:41:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,065</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27619465</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tascheter/pseuds/tascheter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't easy, becoming yourself. Even before fire starts shooting out of your hands.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>afterimage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>written for the prompt: "an old memory, from childhood perhaps?" there are two lines i'm really proud of in this so i'm archiving it here also to inflict it on the largest possible audience.</p><p>cw for mentioned parental death + thinkin bout (vaguely-defined, misunderstanding-based?) conflicts w/religion + the aftermath of whatever the neolithic equivalent of Fighting With Your Parents About Gender is; at least they've got a cool uncle.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They get in a heap of trouble, of course. Exactly as they'd more or less expected. Their mother had been <em>furious</em>, obviously, and the strange, blunt stares of their little cousins had been—uncomfortable, in a way they don't exactly want to examine. By the end of it, they'd been half-convinced they could hear their father's ghost, crying out greedily from beneath the floor of the house.</p><p>But they don't regret it. The sight of the braid in their hand—heavy and luminescent, and red as carnelian—it's the first thing they can remember that felt like really being themself. And they're certainly not going to apologize. They <em>won't</em>. It's their hair, it was their choice; there's nothing to apologize <em>for</em>.</p><p>They're not entirely surprised when their uncle finds them, in the end. (Just—irritated. It's not like they'd entertained any illusion that they'd be left alone forever, but—<em>ugh</em>. It still stings.) They'd pulled the ladder up after them, but he's tall and thin, just like everyone says they're going to be, someday. All cool and collected, just like a priest should be, all perfectly, effortlessly himself.</p><p>"All the way up here, little bee? How cold, to make an old man climb like this."</p><p>They huff. Hadai isn't <em>old</em>, first of all. A couple of summers their mother's elder, no more. They pull their knees up to their chest, and turn their face stubbornly away.</p><p>And second: it hardly seems to stop him, now that he knows they're up here.</p><p>It doesn't take him a moment for the man to pull himself up, as they continue (unsuccessfully) to ignore him. He looks different, out of the leopardskin; less serious, less like <em>a priest</em>, more like—like just their uncle. Not that it makes them any less mad at him, obviously.</p><p>Especially when he sits himself down just lightly, on <em>their</em> rooftop, just outside their arm's reach.</p><p>"You gave us a pretty good chase, I admit." His voice is—not what they were expecting, somehow, after the spectacle earlier. Less frantic, less reproachful. None of which makes hearing it any easier. "Your mother's worried, y'know. All of us are."</p><p>"I don't care," they mumble, somewhere into their knees. They know they've been found, and don't see the point of making a fuss. But they don't have to play this game.</p><p>"What she said, back there—"</p><p>"She still said it. In front of <em>everyone</em>."</p><p>They stare into the sunset, defiant as they can. It hurts, to look right at something that awesome, but—they don't <em>care</em>. They want to drink all of that blazing splendor in, to make it part of themself; to become so bright and distant nothing can ever hurt them again.</p><p>Hadai looks over to them, as the silence stretches. "Your mother can get...carried away with things," he admits, after a moment. "I think mostly she just wasn't expecting—"</p><p>"That doesn't make her right!"</p><p>He huffs a soft laugh. "No. No, it doesn't."</p><p>The concession is—unexpected, to say the least. It's enough of a surprise they can't help but turn to look at him, half-incredulous. The sun's afterimage is still glowing in the back of their eyes like blazing copper, like the sight of their discarded braid.</p><p>"It doesn't," he insists. They feel their eyes go wide again, before they look quickly away, ducking their head with something like shame. His voice sounds tired, but—so kind, so <em>warm</em>, it feels like—like this is the wrong reaction, somehow. "And it's not fair, that she...put you through that, in front of everyone. That she did it at all, but—especially with an audience."</p><p><em>Easy for you to say</em>, part of them thinks, ash-hot and bitter. <em>It's not you that went through it. What do you have to lose from saying so? You weren't even there</em>.</p><p>But when they try to voice the words, even against their better judgment—their eyes are so <em>wet</em>, they—</p><p>"What if she was right?"</p><p>They don't mean to say it aloud. Their voice sounds so—so pathetic, so <em>small</em>. Then the thought-memories flood up against them, too quick and all-encompassing to block out.</p><p><em>What if amma was right. What if—what if this </em>was<em> foolish?</em></p><p><em>What if the gods took what I did for spite</em>?</p><p>
  <em>What if—what if I really am the reason my father is gone?</em>
</p><p>Hadai must have at least heard the gist of all this from their mother, if not from one of the (<em>many</em>) people who'd...overheard, earlier. And they're aware, too—<em>painfully</em> so—of how pathetic they must look.</p><p>"My sister is...a lot of things," he says, eventually. His voice is—hard to read, though unmistakably gentle. "Hurting, still. And impulsive. She wants to get it right, for you, even if—<em>wanting</em> doesn't make it so." He flashes them a small, tentative smile. "But when it comes to gods? She <em>definitely</em> doesn't know what she's talking about."</p><p>It's another thing they'd never expected to hear from their uncle. It feels—almost scandalous, to hear him say it about their mother. And—much more so, to <em>agree</em>.</p><p>"How do <em>you</em> know?"</p><p>Hadai laughs. "I'm a priest, little bee. Pretty sure it's my job to know what the gods think of things."</p><p>It's not...a completely satisfying answer. Though not one they can exactly argue with, either.</p><p>"And—for what it's worth," he adds, "it does suit you, you know." </p><p>He doesn't sound...completely convinced. Or rather: it sounds like a compliment he's never given, before, though one (they can tell) he's trying to make genuine.</p><p>They look at him, still half-distrustful. "You're only saying that to make me feel better."</p><p>"Maybe," he sing-songs. "Is it working?"</p><p>"<em>Uncle</em>."</p><p>They can't chase the laughter entirely from their voice, though. Small, and almost extinguished; but still living, despite everything.</p><p>"Look. I don't pretend to understand what you feel. But..." He makes a loose, indefinite gesture. "You're happy with it, right?</p><p>It's the first time someone's ever <em>asked</em> them, throughout...everything. They thread their fingers through the soft, short hair left at the nape of their neck. Their head feels so light, now; it feels—strange. It feels <em>amazing</em>.</p><p>"Yes," they say, very softly. Before they can stop themself. "I—<em>yeah.</em> I am."</p><p>"Good enough for me, then. And if not—" He shoots them a fond, tentative smile. "Well. Hair always grows back."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>based very self-indulgently on <a href="https://dreamcrow.tumblr.com/post/631246956258312192/a-nice-young-cheese-about-to-experience-their">this little doodle</a>. i simply... love Them</p></blockquote></div></div>
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